Look at her. She’s just lying there. There are only two televisions in the house, and only one of them is next to the bed. My parents have a television in their room. My sister and I do not. The television in the living room is okay, but it’s hard to get comfortable on the couch. The angle is all wrong for watching television. The best place for television watching, especially on a Sunday morning, is on my parent’s bed. And there she is, laying there, watching television, munching on cereal. She doesn’t have a care in the world.

She doesn’t know what it’s like to be in the fourth grade. The responsibilities I have. The homework I need to finish. The tests I have to study for. I remember when I was in the second grade like her. Things were much easier back then. I was carefree. I could play all weekend, and I never had to worry about schoolwork or advancement. Did you know that how well you do in your fourth and fifth grade has a lasting impact on the class you get into during junior high school? And that, in turn, decides what type of class you get into in high school. I’ve heard stories about kids who got into the wrong class in high school, and ended up in gangs and begging on the streets within three years. Some of them went to jail or homeless shelters. Some of them died. That’s not going to happen to me. No sir-ee.

She has to know that it’s Sunday morning, and Sunday mornings are my time to relax in front of the television. I brought my bowl of Fruit Loops (without the milk) to my parent’s bedroom, and I’m ready to watch. Of course, there’s a slight problem. She’s on the good side of the bed. The side of the bed that’s closer to the television. This is unacceptable. Saturday was my day of work. Today is my day of rest, and my day of rest always begins with Sunday morning cartoons. Saturday morning is a better time for cartoons. They run until after noon. But on Sundays, the cartoons end early. I probably only have another hour or so of quality television watching before they replace the cartoons with learning shows.

“Roll over, pipsqueak, you’re in my spot.”

“I was here first.” Younger kids always believe in a fair solution. It’s in their brain that the world works in a fair way. They haven’t learned yet that there is no justice in our world. Big makes right, and there’s no crying over the inevitable laws of bigness. I have two years on my sister, and because of those two years, I have the right to do what I want when I want. It’s a shame I have to keep reminding her of this. It’d be easier if she learned quicker, but that’s the problem with little kids: they’re slow learners.

“Mom said you can’t eat in here.”

“So what’s with your cereal?”

“I wasn’t going to eat in here. I wanted to see what you were doing is all. See. I’m putting the cereal on the nightstand. No eating. Now, go bring your cereal downstairs or I’m going to tell mom.”

I know what she’s thinking. She’s weighing her options, trying to figure out if I’m bluffing. I stare blankly back at her, looking like I don’t have a care in the world. Dad’s been teaching me how to play poker. This is what he calls a bluff. She knows if I get the parental units involved in this discussion, the results become less certain. They might even take her side—although her breakfast in bed angle makes it more complicated. When was the last time she blinked? She’s chewing and watching me. What is she waiting for and why doesn’t she blink? I try to remain calm. She’s making this difficult.

“So, whatcha watching?” I try to break the stalemate. I decide it’s not worth getting the parents involved yet.

“A show.” She’s not being very cooperative. She’s still staring at me. It’s creeping me out. How can she eat without looking down at the cereal? Milk runs down her chin and she doesn’t wipe it off. Why doesn’t she wipe it off? I take a deep breath.

“I can see that, stupid. What show?”

She looks away, still not blinking. “You can sit next to me and eat your cereal. I won’t tell mom.”

I felt my face turn red. I could feel the blood running into my face, as if someone was squeezing the blood out of my brain like from a sponge. She didn’t even look at me. It was time to take action. The television was tuned to channel 2. I walked around the bed and turned to channel 7 where a Sunday news show was playing. I sat down at the edge of the bed and watched my sister. She groaned. She knew how this would play out.

She stood up to turn the channel back. When she did, I slid into the bed in her position, and grabbed my bowl. She turned and screamed. It was a low scream not intended to be heard outside the room.

“I was sitting there.”

“Yup.”

“Move!”

“You got up.”

“You changed the channel on me.” I think it was the unfairness that drove her crazy.

She changed the channel, but I munched away. Content in waiting her out. That’s one of the things I learned as I grew older. My sister was too young to have figured this out. She eventually stormed out of the room. I stood up and changed the channel to cartoons and munched away on my cereal.